The first two years of the family came by,
They arrived quietly, disguised as repetition—
Kanji learned this slowly.
He moved through the house with a careful economy, as if every step still required justification. His height made him naturally visible in every room, but he tried to occupy space without dominating it—leaning against doorframes instead of standing in the center, sitting on the floor more often than the couch, lowering himself instinctively when Omoshiro reached for him. His body carried strength without display, density without tension, like something forged long ago and then asked, patiently, to be gentle.
His hair was almost always a mess. Dark, thick, falling into his eyes no matter how many times Marumaya told him to cut it. He never did. Not because he resisted the idea—he simply forgot. Or perhaps some part of him liked the inconvenience, the way it forced him to tilt his head when listening, a posture that made him look less imposing, more open.
Kanji listened more than he spoke.
When Omoshiro cried in the night, Kanji woke instantly—. He would sit up before the sound fully registered, He held his son close to his chest, large hands adjusting minutely until the child settled, breathing syncing unconsciously with the smaller rhythm pressed against him.
In those moments, Kanji's face softened in a way that never happened anywhere else. His eyes—dark, steady, often distant—became intensely present. As if this single, fragile weight anchored him more firmly to the world than anything he had ever fought for.
Marumaya noticed everything.
She always had.
She watched the way Kanji checked the locks twice before bed during the first months. The way his shoulders only fully relaxed once Omoshiro was asleep. The way he flinched—not visibly, but internally—whenever their son startled too suddenly.
Marumaya herself changed in quieter ways.
Her body carried motherhood naturally, but not effortlessly. Pregnancy had shifted her center, altered the way she stood and moved. There was a new steadiness in her posture, a groundedness that came from having learned—intimately—what it meant to carry something fragile without breaking. Her hair remained long, dark, thick, usually tied back loosely, strands escaping by afternoon. She never bothered fixing them.
Her face told stories even when she didn't speak. Her eyes, deep and observant, tracked small changes in mood the way others tracked weather. She spoke softly, but with precision. When she corrected Kanji, it was never accusatory—just factual, grounded, impossible to dismiss.
As a mother, she spoke to Omoshiro constantly.
Not in the simplified tones people expected, but in full sentences. She narrated the world to him while cooking, while folding laundry, while standing at the window watching rain gather on glass. Her voice carried calm—
Omoshiro listened.
From the beginning, he was a quiet child—attentive. His eyes followed motion longer than expected, lingering on hands, on faces, on light shifting across walls. His hair grew unevenly, dark and soft, refusing to settle, giving him a perpetually thoughtful look. His cries were sharp and indignant, as if protesting.
When he laughed, it came suddenly.
Repeated sounds. Reflections. The same action performed twice, identically.
Kanji noticed that before anyone else did.
The first year was exhaustion.
Sleep fractured. Time blurred. Kanji worked nights and returned just before dawn, the faint scent of rain and metal clinging to him. Marumaya learned to rest lightly, her body attuned to Omoshiro's smallest shifts. They spoke in whispers more often than not—
They argued rarely.
And when they did, it was quiet.
About fear.
About responsibility.
About whether love was enough to protect something this small.
Kanji struggled most with stillness. There were nights when he sat on the edge of the bed, Omoshiro asleep against his chest, hands trembling slightly—
Marumaya never called attention to it.
She simply placed her hand over his, steady and warm, grounding him without words.
By the second year, the house learned their rhythm.
Omoshiro learned to walk cautiously—testing each step before committing, falling rarely because he refused to move without understanding the ground beneath him. His words came slowly, but accurately. "Pa." "Ma."
Kanji stopped checking the locks as often.
Marumaya laughed more.
And in the quiet moments—when Omoshiro slept between them after a bad dream, when the house held their breathing without judgment—Kanji felt something unfamiliar settle in his chest.
Belonging.
Kanji became calmer.
Calm in the sense that his thoughts no longer collided with each other. The noise that once filled his head—the constant measuring of danger, regret, readiness—slowly learned how to be quiet when it was no longer needed.
Most mornings, before the city fully woke, Kanji trained outside.
Not in secret, exactly—but not for an audience either.
Behind the house, past the uneven grass and the trees that shielded the yard from the road, there was a stretch of open ground where the earth had compacted into something firm. He stood there barefoot more often than not, feeling the soil through his soles, letting his breathing align with the rhythm of the world rather than his own thoughts.
His movements were controlled now.
No wasted motion.
Sometimes it was slow forms—steps measured, hands cutting through the air with deliberate arcs. Other times it was stillness, standing for long minutes with his eyes closed, armor never manifesting yet somehow present all the same, like a thought waiting just beneath the surface.
Marumaya watched him from the porch more often than she admitted.
She never interrupted.
She simply observed—the way his posture had changed over the years, the way tension no longer lived permanently in his shoulders, the way his presence felt… settled. He looked grounded in a way that was difficult to explain to anyone who hadn't known him before.
One afternoon, when the sun was low and warm and Omoshiro was napping inside, she finally asked the question that had lived quietly in her for a long time.
"Why don't you show it?" she said.
Kanji turned, surprised—not by the question itself, but by how gently it was asked.
"Show what?"
She gestured vaguely toward him. Toward the air. Toward everything he never brought into the house.
"That power," she said. "What you can do. Why not show the world?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he sat down on the edge of the porch beside her, forearms resting on his knees. For a moment, he looked older than his years—not tired, just… aware.
"I don't think I'm the only one," he said finally.
She tilted her head slightly, listening.
"And the moment I prove that something like me exists," he continued, "we stop being a family and start being a target. Curiosity turns into fear. Fear turns into control. And control never lets go."
Marumaya was quiet for a long time.
Then she nodded.
"I know," she said.
She truly did.
Still… sometimes, late at night, when she lay awake listening to Kanji's breathing beside her, she wondered how many lives could be saved if the world knew. How many disasters would never happen. How many people would never suffer.
Kanji wondered the same thing.
That was the cruel part—he knew.
And sometimes, when circumstance forced his hand, he acted anyway.
Once, during a routine night shift near his worksite, he heard shouting from the adjacent mall. Raised voices. Panic rippling outward like a broken wave. A masked man yanked a gun from beneath his jacket—
And then the moment ended.
No flash.
No sound.
The weapon shattered into fragments against the concrete as if it had struck something far denser than air. The man collapsed before his body understood why, unconscious before fear could fully form. The others dropped where they stood, not struck, not harmed—simply overwhelmed by a force that did not announce itself.
By the time anyone thought to scream, the problem had already ceased to exist.
Security footage showed nothing but confusion. A blink. A gap.
Kanji was already gone, returning to work with his heartbeat steady, his hands unshaking.
It happened like that, whenever it happened at all.
He was stronger.
Faster reactions. Sharper perception. His body responding to intent before thought could catch up. Even rest didn't dull it. If anything, age seemed to refine him.
One morning, Marumaya noticed it first.
A strand of his hair caught the light differently.
She reached up without thinking and touched it, brow furrowing slightly.
"Kanji," she said, amused. "Your hair."
He blinked. "What about it?"
She twisted the strand between her fingers. "It's… lighter."
He leaned toward the mirror later, inspecting it with mild curiosity. There it was—just a hint. Gold threaded faintly through black, like sunlight trapped in shadow.
He laughed.
"That's actually kind of cool," he said. "What if in ten years I'm blonde?"
Marumaya laughed too, the sound easy and familiar.
"I'd get used to it," she said. "Eventually."
As time passed, they grew closer in a way that surprised even them.
Kanji found it harder than he expected to focus at work—his thoughts drifting back to Marumaya at random moments. The curve of her smile. The way she hummed when she cooked. The sound of her voice when she said his name without urgency.
Marumaya struggled the same way. Some days she caught herself smiling for no reason at all, only realizing later that she had been thinking about him.
They never stopped choosing each other.
Just… inevitably.
Marumaya stood in the doorway one evening, hands trembling, eyes bright with a familiar fear and joy intertwined.
Kanji knew before she spoke.
Their second son was born under quiet skies.
They named him Kagi Moshiro.
Where Omoshiro had been calm from the beginning, Kagi was alert. His cries were sharp, demanding, as if offended by delay. His hair was lighter than his brother's, softer in texture, and his eyes—dark and observant—tracked movement with uncanny precision even as an infant.
He was smaller than Omoshiro had been.
But there was a tension in him.
Kagi grew quickly. He reached early. Watched constantly. Where Omoshiro listened, Kagi studied. He clung to Marumaya fiercely, yet calmed almost instantly when Kanji held him, small fingers gripping fabric with surprising strength.
Kanji noticed it.
He noticed everything.
Holding his sons—one peaceful, one intense—he felt something unfamiliar but welcome settle into place.
Responsibility.
Omoshiro turned four.
Kagi was barely two, still small enough to stumble when he ran, still young enough that his emotions lived close to the surface of his skin. Where Omoshiro had grown into quiet observation, Kagi was motion—hands always reaching, eyes always sharp, attention flickering quickly but never shallow.
Kanji watched them both constantly.
Training was not something you introduced lightly to a child—especially not when that training brushed against forces the world barely understood. Kanji knew this. He never pressed. He never argued. He asked once, then waited.
Months passed.
Then more.
Sometimes Marumaya would catch him watching Omoshiro from across the room, eyes distant—measuring something she couldn't see. She knew what he was thinking. He knew she knew.
When she finally spoke, it was one quiet evening after Omoshiro had fallen asleep on the couch, fingers curled loosely around one of Kanji's.
"Slow," she said.
Kanji turned to her immediately. "Always."
"No pushing," she added. "No expectations."
"I swear it," he said without hesitation.
"And you stop the moment I say so."
He nodded. "Every time."
She exhaled slowly, then looked away, as if committing herself to something fragile.
"Then… you can try."
Kanji thanked her.
Every time.
Training did not look like training.
Not at first.
There were no stances. No techniques. No armor. No energy.
Just mornings in the yard.
Walking, Breathing, Standing still.
Kanji would kneel beside Omoshiro and ask him simple things.
"What do you feel under your feet?"
"Can you hear the wind?"
"Does the ground feel quiet today, or loud?"
Omoshiro answered seriously, thoughtfully, never guessing. When he didn't know, he said so.
Kanji never corrected him.
He watched.
Weeks passed with nothing remarkable.
Then months.
And then—nothing still.
Until one day at preschool.
It was something small. Ordinary. A child's voice raised too sharply. A careless insult spoken without weight, without understanding.
Omoshiro froze.
His shoulders tensed. His breathing changed. The emotion hit him before the words fully registered, anger tightening somewhere deep and unfamiliar.
He clenched his fists and punched the ground.
The floor trembled. A low, rolling shudder that knocked toys over and silenced the room in an instant. Dust lifted. Children screamed.
Omoshiro stared at his hands.
Blood dripped slowly from his knuckles, bright against the pale floor.
The teacher couldn't speak.
She stood there, mouth open, heart pounding, eyes fixed on the child who now looked more confused than angry.
Later—much later—during one of those strained, polite meetings parents are summoned to when no one knows what words to use, the teacher spoke carefully.
"I don't want to alarm you," she said, folding and unfolding her hands. "But… your son may be one of those children."
Kanji felt Marumaya stiffen beside him.
"Those?" she asked.
"The ones on the news," the teacher continued. "The… superhuman cases. Strength beyond normal limits. Physical anomalies. It's rare, but it's becoming less so."
Kanji nodded slowly.
What the teacher couldn't understand—what no one there could—was that Omoshiro wasn't just like those children.
He was something else entirely.
Months passed.
The world kept turning.
Omoshiro healed. Learned restraint. Learned breathing again. Kanji adjusted training further—slower, gentler, quieter. Sometimes it was nothing more than sitting together beneath the trees, hands resting on the ground, feeling the hum of the earth without responding to it.
Kagi watched from the porch, eyes too sharp for his age.
Kanji noticed that too.
And in the quiet space between years, with his hair threading ever-so-slightly more gold into black.
------------------------------------Present---------------------------------------
A powerful mixture of anxiety and frustration arose. He kicked the door and broke it into splinters, letting out a savage howl. His presence was abruptly announced by the tremendous smash that reverberated throughout the dusk. Through his formerly serene house, the macabre guide of a blood trail called him.
The thundering thump of Kanji's heart was accompanied by a melancholy lament as his footsteps reverberated throughout the home. With every stride the iron smell intensified, a sickening perfume that hung in the air. With a raspy voice from despair, he shouted out repeatedly. "Hay marumaya! Cheers! Hey Marumaya, where are the kids? Hello, Maru! Maru!"
The home had become a haunted house after formerly serving as a haven of warmth and family. The typical clutter in the living area remained untouched, as it was vacant. Now a place of silence and sterility, the kitchen had once been a hub of laughing and shared meals. A quiet, scarlet path of blood guided him upward into an unidentified horror.
Voices came from the first floor and floated up. Reporters were examining the enormous tree on a television broadcast as their faces were carved with a mixture of terror and wonder. The TV was in one of the bedrooms. Kanji paid little attention to what was happening outside his house. He had a single, unwavering concentration because of his innate need to keep his family safe.
Kanji's bedroom, a chamber full of recollections of better days, was located along the blood trail. The red line that curled across the floor, however, destroyed the picture perfect. An unrelenting rhythm of terror and dread slammed in his heart like a battle drum.
A sizable cabinet—a piece of furniture that was home to innumerable secrets—marked the conclusion of the route. Reaching for the doorknob, his palms trembled. He took a deep breath and threw open the cabinet doors.
A terrifying scene was what met his eyes. A million parts of his universe broke apart.
There they were—what remained of them—no longer arranged by life, no longer held together by meaning. Flesh separated from purpose. Limbs reduced to objects. Faces frozen not in terror, not even in pain, but in something far worse: interruption. As if their final emotions had been severed mid-breath, dried into the skin itself.
Blood had soaked everything long enough to darken, to thicken, to become something almost solid. It clung to the wood, pooled into corners, crawled along edges in slow, coagulated lines. The smell was unbearable—iron layered upon rot, grief sharpened into a physical force that pressed against his throat.
His eyes did not widen or flinch.
They simply… emptied.
As if someone had reached into him and scooped something essential out, leaving only the shape behind.
His hand moved on its own, pressing flat against his chest. He felt his heart. Still beating. Still insisting.
"No," he whispered, the word barely surviving the air. "That can't be…"
The thought fractured immediately, collapsing under its own impossibility.
"There's no way," he said again, louder this time, as if volume could restore logic. "There's no way…"
His breath stuttered. His knees weakened, but did not give in. He remained standing—not strong, not defiant—just incapable of falling yet.
"God," his voice broke apart on the name. "Please… no. No, no, no—"
His hands trembled violently now, fingers curling inward as if trying to grab onto something that was already gone.
"Why?" he whispered, the question meaningless but unavoidable. "Why…?"
His mind scrambled desperately, constructing denial faster than thought could collapse it.
This is a nightmare.
One of the bad ones.
Tears came suddenly, violently, without transition. Not sobs yet—just a raw spilling, grief tearing through whatever barrier had held it back. His breathing turned jagged. Uneven. Painful.
The stench intensified as he leaned closer without realizing it. Insects crawled along the edges of what once were arms, legs, faces he had memorized in life. The sight twisted his stomach violently.
He gagged.
Turned his head sharply away.
Swallowed hard, forcing his body into obedience through sheer refusal. Vomiting felt like betrayal—like admitting this was real.
His eyes squeezed shut.
He reached outward—
He searched.
For any sign of life.
There was nothing.
Only animals. Birds in the trees. Small things breathing at a distance. Nature continuing without pause or permission.
Whoever had done this was gone.
Completely.
The realization landed with crushing finality.
Kanji's chest expanded sharply as he inhaled—and then something inside him broke loose.
The scream that followed was not human in shape.
It did not rise and fall like sound was supposed to. It tore itself out of him, ripping through his throat raw and unfiltered, a cry so dense with agony that it seemed to warp the air itself. It carried grief so absolute it rejected articulation—pain stripped of language, despair stripped of hope.
It was the sound of something eternal being denied.
Anyone who might have heard it—anyone at all—would not have recognized it as a scream, Like being reminded of every loss they had ever buried and every frustation that they faced.
It collapsed.
Kanji closed the cabinet.
He carried the bag outside.
The fall from the window barely registered. The grass bent beneath him. The earth waited.
He dropped to his knees and dug.
His hands struck soil and tore through it as if it were water. Dirt flew aside in heavy chunks. In less than three seconds, the ground had yielded—a grave carved by desperation rather than effort.
He placed the bag inside.
His body shook now, sobs wracking through him in uneven waves as memories assaulted him without mercy. Laughter. Quiet mornings. Shared glances. Small arguments that ended in smiles. The weight of his children sleeping against his chest.
He turned his face away, jaw clenched so tightly it ached, fighting not to scream again.
He wanted—desperately—to feel something human nearby.
Anything.
A presence.
A witness.
Proof that he was not completely alone in this moment.
But there was only silence.